


I Don't Have Time For This

by todreaminscarlet



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Language, Stressed College Student AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todreaminscarlet/pseuds/todreaminscarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She groans out loud, and wants to tear out her hair. What the hell. Why does she need a history credit, she wonders, not for the first time, and why in the world did she choose this one.” </p><p>OR: Stressed College Student AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Marshall was able to achieve this silent unrecognized legalization and judicial enforcement of the Constitution through maintenance of period 2 language and form, by virtue of the seeming superficiality of the difference between explicit fundamental law and supreme written law_ …”

 _The fuck,_ Clarke thinks. _The fuck is that supposed to mean._ She places a sticky note on the page, and slams the book shut. She rubs her eyes with her fists and buries her head in her palms. _God_ , it’s been around two hours and she is still no closer to understanding the material for her Constitutional law final in two days--and nope, she’s been staring at the stupid book for close to four hours actually, she realizes. _Shit_.

As she sits in the library, debating what to do with her time, she hears, for what seems like the millionth time that evening, heavy panting and groaning coming from the couple sitting in the corner behind her. _Oh my god_ , she wants to scream, _this is the fucking library_. And it’s not just that they’ve been sitting there making out for hours, this guy has been here every few days for over a week, each time bringing a different girl to make out with. She sighs, putting all of her tension and frustration in it and making it as loud a sigh as she can. Clarke rolls her neck, feels the tension release with a series of small cracks; she picks up her phone and debates texting her roommate. Raven was planning on having a study group to prepare for her mechanical engineering final, which Clarke knows definitely means Raven’s group of friends gave up studying after five hours and are now probably getting drunk. She sends off a text anyway, but _shit_. ( _Stop it,_ Clarke thinks. Her quality of her vocabulary severely shrinks during finals, and this semester’s has been even worse than normal.)

Her phone buzzes; and yeah, they’re sitting around, and from the language in the text, Clarke guesses that they’ve been sitting there for a while. God, she just wants to cry. It’s close to eleven at night--it’s not even that late all things considered--but it’s been days of this stress and mess and noise and she just can’t deal with it all anymore. She buries her face in her hands again and takes a long, slow, deep breath. _Read_ , she thinks. She grudgingly pulls the book towards her, opens it, and reaches for her phone. She slowly makes her way through the next paragraph, _Clair de Lune_ filling her ears with it’s soft melody and harmonious symphony... ” _This has resulted in a confesed inconclusiveness in our understanding of the pre-Marshall sources and, in place of understanding, attribution to them of internal contradiction and ambiguity_.”

Again, the _fuck_. She groans out loud, and wants to tear out her hair. What the hell, she thinks. _Why does she need a history credit_ , she wonders, not for the first time, _and why in the world did she choose this one_. She needs to start studying for her O Chem final, but she can’t start that one until she has this one under control, and if she doesn’t understand it soon the entire study schedule she had planned for finals would be screwed up, and then what would she do because she had carefully planned out each minute of these two weeks, and this stupid class would just screw everything up, and--”

She’s broken out of her swiftly spiraling mental process, by a loud clap on the table in front of her. She jumps in her seat and looks at the boy sitting across from her. _Oh_ , she thinks. It’s the idiot that’s been coming in and making out with apparently every girl he meets, except unfortunately for her, he’s actually really, _really_ attractive.

“You wanna take a deep breath,” she distantly hears. _Huh_? She starts in her seat and really looks at him, squints her eyes to make them focus. “Breathe,” he repeats, his voice low and gravelly. _Well, that’s not helpful_ , she thinks. Stupid low male voices. “Oh my god,” he says and reaches across the table to grab the book from her hand.

“Hey!” She leans forward and tries to snag the book from his hand. “Stop it!”

He looks up at her from under his lashes, his eyes both cool and twinkling with suppressed amusement. “No.”

She sighs with frustration.

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack with all that sighing and pent up anxiety.”

“That’s not how it works,” she retorts. She rolls her jaw and bites in the inside of her cheek as she looks at him.

“You in Walsh’s class?” he asks, studying the page she had left open in the book.

“Yeah,” she says, drawing out the last syllable.  

“Yeah I was in it last semester. He’s tough but fair,” the boy says, his voice slightly distant.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yeah I figured that much out, thanks. It’s just not helpful when I don’t even understand the material.”

The boy looks up at her and smirks. “I can tell.”

Oh dear God. “Then why are you bothering me? I need to get back to work.” Clarke tries to grab the book from him again, but he pulls it back out her her reach. “For God’s sake,” she bursts out.

“Shhhh!” he says, his voice mocking. “This is the library! Inside voices!”

 _For the love of_ \--Clarke closes her eyes and tries to breathe. “I don’t have time for this.” she says, breathing through her nose and emphasizing the spaces between each word.

He pushes the book toward her. “Listen,” he says. “I know this material. I will help you study.”

Clarke looks at him warily. “Why?” she asks slowly.

“Because you’re ruining my fun,” he smirks at her. Clarke only huffs in return. “And,” he continues, “because I actually really like this material and because it’s stuff that’s really important to understand.” His voice deepens as he talks, and she finds herself a little impressed by the suppressed enthusiasm in his voice.

Clarke looks to the wall, wants to say no. _The things she does for her fucking GPA_ , she thinks. “Fine,” she hears herself say.

The boy breaks out in a smile, (oh _god_ , she thinks) and motions for her phone. She pulls up her address book, and hands it to him. He sends off a quick text message, says, “I’ll meet you here tomorrow at seven,” and pushes himself up from the table.

“Hey!” She huffs. “I need help _now_.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to help you tomorrow. I have stuff to take care of tonight.” He winks at her and she wants to groan.

She pulls the book towards her and studiously stares at it, also managing to (almost) ignore the boy standing by the table.

“I’m Bellamy, by the way,” he says.

She refuses to look up. “Clarke.”

* * *

  
And if he turns out to actually be a really good tutor, she’ll never admit it, although she might buy him a coffee (plain and black; nothing fancy) as thanks. And if she gets a B on the stupid final, he might just buy her a drink to celebrate his success as a tutor. But you know, just if he’s actually a good one.

 


	2. She's Running Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Bellamy and Clarke actually study

She’s running late. And she hates— _hates_ —being late. But she had lost track of time when she and Raven were having a ranty bed-chat about everything (the stress and the classes and _him_ and stupid Finn and _god_ , she had needed it), and she had had to run out of her apartment, even forgetting the snack she had wanted to bring with her for later. _Goddamn_ _it_ , Clarke thinks, looking down at the face of her watch. She’s only around ten minutes late, but that’s fifteen minutes too late, and its going to give _him_ an edge over her. She waits by the library elevator, jiggling herself up and down on the balls of her feet as she waits for the _freaking_ _slow_ elevator to make its way to the first floor. As its doors slowly open, she moves inside and pounds the elevator button.

At the last minute, another girl joins her in the elevator, reaches down, and pushes the second floor button. Clarke stares forward, tenses her jaw, runs her tongue over her lips—the _fuck_ , she thinks furiously. The elevator moves up a floor, the girl gets off, and it ascends up to the floor where they had arranged to meet. She walks around the corner, and there he is, sitting by the table, his dark hair tousled like someone’s hands have been running through it, one leg up, an ankle resting on his knee. She moves forward and drops her bag on a chair. He looks up and runs his gaze up and down her body, raising an eyebrow at her dishevelment. “There is,” she says, her voice clipped, “a special place in hell reserved for people who needlessly take an elevator up one floor.”

He huff a laugh and smirks at her, “What if they’re injured, hm?”

She rolls her eyes, mutters, “I said _needlessly_ ,” and sits down and runs her hand through her hair. She pulls out her laptop, her textbook, and her sticky notes and highlighters; finally, she looks up and actually looks at him. _Bellamy_. He’s leaning back in his chair, staring at her with a faint grin on his face. She flushes but holds his gaze for a moment; her eyes flicker down to his neck and she actually sees him, but this time she flushes a bright red and she can’t help it and why, god why. He sits there, all cool and collected, his hair messy and a stupid, awkward hickey marking his neck (except it’s not the hickey that’s awkward, ‘cause _you do you_ , that’s her kind-of-motto, but for God’s sake, why is she so awkward about this; she’s been listening to him make out with a conglomeration of girls for over a week, and she’s just so awkward, oh my god). She blinks, realizes she’s been staring, blushes again (oh _god_ ) and stares back at her laptop screen.

“Um,” she begins ( _starting strong,_ she groans). “Um, so. This stuff.”

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes dancing. “This stuff.”

Clarke huffs, opening her textbook and pushing it across to Bellamy. He grabs the top and pulls it across the table to him, looks down at it and back at her.

"Well?” she asks.

“Why are you taking the class?” he asks in return, his face looking almost sincere.

“That’s not this stuff,” she replies. His dark eyes stare at her, and one eyebrow rises. “I needed the credit,” she answers anyway.

He hmmms in reply, staring at the book before looking back up at her.

“I need to be able to write an essay about the constitutional issues that lead to the passing,” she pauses and squints at the outlined instructions on her screen, “of the 13th-15th amendments?” She pauses and stares up at him, her brow furrowed.

Bellamy hmms again under his breath and flashes her a half smile. “Okay,” he says, “do you even know what they are?”

Clarke reflexively huffs; pauses, and licks her lips. _No_ , she thinks. _No, you really don’t_. “They’re about slavery?” she answers, the last syllable curving up into a question. She tenses in her seat, waits for the snark, but never gets it.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, his face lighting up and nodding his head. “Yeah, they’re about slavery. But they’re so much more than that too,” he explains, his words enthusiastic.

She sits back and stares at him as he begins to talk his way through the amendments. His hands begin to gesture wildly as he flips through the book, sticking sticky notes in it haphazardly as he makes his way through it. _His hair is too long_ , she thinks. He keeps having to push it back from his forehead as he talks, but as soon as he gestures, the wavy brown strands fall back across his forehead and into his eyes. The more he talks, the wider his gestures become and the more his eyes begin to flash. Clarke sits and watches him, sees the dimples around his mouth form as he talks, notices the lines around his eyes crinkle at the same time. _It’s really unfair_ , she determines. _No guy should be this objectively physically attractive_. _Honestly,_ she thinks. _It’s not even that she’s attracted to him, because, well,_ duh, _but it just works for him, goddamn it_.

“Clarke!” she hears. She blinks furiously and focuses her eyes on Bellamy. “Hm?”

 “Are you even paying attention?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the table. “I have other things I _could_ be doing right now.”

And _of course_ , she thinks. “I didn’t ask you to help,” she retorts.

“Yeah, sure I offered,” he states. “But I kinda figured you’d be at least trying to pay attention. You kinda don’t have a single clue what’s going on. Obviously.”

Oh she hates this. _Hates_ needing his help. _God, please let him have a science class,_ she thinks. She licks her lips again, (god, she needs new chap stick, her lips are a disaster area), breathes in through her mouth and shakes her head. “Yes. Okay,” she admits. “I zoned out. What was the last thing you said?”

He looks at her and rolls his eyes. ( _God, he needs a haircut_ , she thinks again, his hair is so floppy. _God! Clarke focus_ , she thinks). “I was saying,” he begins, “that the fourteenth amendment made the thirteenth workable, since the thirteenth, while it forbade slavery, couldn’t really do anything to enforce it. Okay?”

She nods, and he continues, “So the fourteenth amendment secured the right of black _men_ , forbade Confederates from working in the federal government, forced the whole country to pay for the Northern war debt while leaving the South responsible for theirs, and expanded the power of the federal government.”

She blinks and shuts her eyes. _It’s not even that hard, but it’s so fucking hard_. She opens her eyes and squints at Bellamy who’s staring at her with mild amusement. “Got it?” he asks.

 _No_. “Yeah.”

"So no?”

“No.”

He laughingly huffs and runs a hand through his curls again. _Asshole_.

 “Okay,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. He runs through his brief summary again, writing out each bullet point on a piece of paper. “While it does more, these are the main ideas, I’d say.”

Clarke leans forward. Four things. She can do four things. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Okay.”

“Yes?’ he asks, his eyes lighting up. “Good! Okay, then, so you get that this all seems like good stuff, right?” She nods. “Yeah, so while it accomplished some good things, it also had some unforeseen problems.” He pauses and looks at her expectantly, and she nods to make him continue. “So this is important because the amendment’s wording made the Constitution explicitly state, for the first time, that only men could vote. So, because they passed the amendment, the Constitution officially implied that men and women actually had different constitutional rights.” He looks at her again, and she nods. “And while the government was trying to make the South pay financially for what they did, they placed the burden on the part of the country where most of the African Americans lived, so for decades, they lived in the poorest part of the country in addition to the whole host of other racist shit they had to deal with. Make sense?” he asks.

She pauses, thinks. _It actually kinda almost does_ , she thinks. She looks up from her computer screen and slowly nods. “Yeah?” he asks excitedly.

“Yeah,” she answers, laughing at his excitement. He leans back in his chair, tilting it until it balances on the ground on two legs and crossing his arms across his chest. _Ugh_ , she thinks. _The cockiness is overwhelming_.

 He flashes a huge, dimpled smile at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“What about this chapter?” she pulls the book toward her and flips a few pages and points at a highlighted paragraph. He thumps his chair to the ground, and pulls it toward him, nods as he reads, and begins to explain it.

They do this over and over, Clarke asking questions and Bellamy (surprisingly) patiently answering. They do it until Clarke yawns, checks the time, and _shit_ , it’s almost eleven and it’s been four hours, and _shit_. She looks up at Bellamy, his eyes tired but friendly. She winces. “It’s eleven.”

He huffs a breath and checks his phone. “ _Shit_ ,” he says, echoing her thoughts. His fingers fly across the screen answering the text messages she assumes have piled up as he’s helped her.

“Sorry,” she ruefully offers, pulling her textbook toward her. He shakes his head at her.

“Glad I could help.” He drums his fingers on the table. “I hope it was helpful.”

“It was,” she nods. She pauses as he begins to rise from the table. “Are you going to be up for a while?”

He turns to look at her from where he had been checking his backpack. “Yes?”

“Let me buy you a coffee then,” she offers. “As thanks.”

He begins to smirk. “A large caramel frappuccino with extra whipped cream?” he asks slyly.

 _Asshole_ , she thinks, rolling her eyes again. (God, how many times has she rolled her eyes already because of him?) They make their way to the stairs to head to the ground floor. “Plain and black,” she says. “One plain small coffee.”

“Way to have limits on the generosity,” he retorts.

 _God_. “Way to be ungrateful,” she says. ( _The fuck_?? _Her insults need help_.)           

* * *

 

She purchases their coffee in the cafe, and together they walk out of the library. They pause outside the door, and he starts to turn away from her direction. “But seriously, thanks,” he says, raising his cup in her direction.

“No,” she says, somewhat unwillingly. “Thank you.”

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's another! Wrote half of this as stress relief in the middle of finals and half of this last night as celebration for being done with them (finally!!!). So it's a little stilted, but I'm so happy to be done with this semester, I'm posting anyway. 
> 
> Happy studying!! (or Happy I'm-Finally-Done/I've-been-Done-with-University-For-Ages/What-Is-College-Should-I-Fear-It?)
> 
> Also, the inspiration for this story: 
> 
> (1) My personal frustration with people who take the elevator up a floor or two. 
> 
> (2) I once had a friend leave in the middle of a study session and show back up two hours later completely disheveled (completely unusual for him) with a hickey on his neck and box of cold pizza. Fun times.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote an AU!! The quotes are from a book I have to read for class, which *might* be why I wrote this (frustration and procrastination WIN AGAIN).
> 
> For those of you who have finals, Happy Studying. I hope everything goes well; Best of Luck (and talent and sleepless nights) to you all.


End file.
